The Mystery of the Clasped Hands

friend, Victor Fensden, as they turned from Oxford Street into one of the narrow thoroughfares in the neighbourhood of S

cent quarter of the Town, to say nothing of being waited upon by a man who does look as i

nion only

be an Englishman must of necessity be dirty, and be possessed of a willingness to sever your jugular within the first few minutes of your acquaintance. With regard to the accusation you bring against me, I am willin

man grunted

afia, the Camorristi, and the Carbonari. Some day you will enter into an argum

do when you have so little of the romantic in your temperament, is a thing I can not for the life of me understand. That a man who rows, plays football and cricket, and who will

, and at the same time had painted at least three of the most beautiful pictures — pictures with a subtle touch of poetry in them — that the public had seen for many years. His height was fully six feet one and a half, his shoulders were broad and muscular; he boasted a pleasant and open countenance,

in form, and a trifle vague as to colouring. On occasions he wrote poetry. There were some who said he was not sincere, that his pictures were milk-and-water affairs, suggestive of the works of greater men, and only intended to advertise himself. If that were so, the success they achieved was comparative. Sad to relate, there were people in London who had not heard the name of Victor Fensden; while the walls of the Academy, which he affected so much to despise, had not so far been honoured by his patronage. “The whole thing,” he would say, adopting the language of our American cousins, “is controlled by a Business Ring; th

looked about them. The room was long and narrow, and contained some ten or a dozen small tables, three or four of which were already occupied. Pictures of the German school, apparently painted by the yard, and interspersed with gaudy portraits of King Humbert with his mustache, Victor Emmanuel with his wealth of orders, t

im. “If you take a pleasure in macaroni and tomato, and find poetry in garlic and sauer-kraut, the divine instinct must be even m

ter off here. Set your imagination to work, my dear fellow, and try to believe yourself in Florence, with the moonlight streaming down on the Ponte Vecchio; or in

ot,” replied Godfrey. “Is it a joke you’re bringing me h

as if he were anxious to assure himself upon

f I wanted to do you a good turn, and by asking you to

hosen a curious way of showing it. How a low Italian restaurant in Soho can help me in the work I

or your new picture is about as difficult to find as, well, shall we say, an honest dealer? Now, I believe that the humble mouse was once able to assist the lion — forgive the implied compliment — in other words, I think I have achieved the impossible. It will take too long to tell you how I managed it, but the fact remains that I have disc

ork? My dear fellow, you know as well as I do that we think differently upon such matters. What you have repeatedly declared to be the loveliest face you have ever seen, I would not sketch upon a canvas; while an

s a stout and matronly party, dark of eye, swarthy of skin, and gorgeous in her colouring, so much so, indeed, that not the slightest doubt could have existed as to her nationality. She was a daughter of Italy from the top of her head to the soles of her ample feet. Her companion, however, was modelled on altogether different lines. She was tall, graceful, and so beautiful, in a statuesque way, that

ore to himself than to his companion. “At a

e, made a note of the admiration h

h in his voice. “You pooh-poohed the notion that I shoul

ul contour of the face, the shapely neck and the hands! Great Scott! wha

said to myself: ‘This is the model for Godfrey!’ I made inquiries about her, and, fi

nd, with her assistance, to complete his masterpiece. As soon as the doors of Burlington House were thro

d his ideal commence her meal. To watch her filling her pretty mouth to overflowing with steaming macaroni was not a pleasing sight. It wa

hing in Italian, which elicited a beaming smile from the elder lady, and a gesture of approval from her companion. It was not the first time in his life t

Italian, since she is an accomplished English scholar,” said F

s tongue as well as if she had been born

ue to be placed upon what Fensden had said. Having received permission, the two men seated themselves at the table, and Henderson ordered another flask of wine. Un

y, turning to Fensden. “And why not? ’Tis a beautiful face, though I, her mother, say it

a certain hour every week-day until the picture was finished. Matters having been arranged in this eminently friendly fashion, the meeting broke up, and with many b

. “I’ve been worrying myself more than I can say at not being a

g as an apology. His only desire was that

ht when he was alone in his bedroom. “Fancy his hunting through London for a mode

grew upon the canvas was not to be concealed. Meanwhile Fensden smoked innumerable cigarettes, composed fin-de-siècle poems in her honour, and made a number of impressionist studies of her head that his friends declared would eventually astonish artistic London. At last the pi

Teresina,” cried Godfrey. “I knew t

child’s head. Her face would not be there but for the signor’s cleverness. We

r lap. The day, however, was not destined to end as happily as it had begun. That

able beside him, “I have come to the conclusion that you must go warily. The

. “I know the poise of that head is not quite what it might be, but haven’t I promised you that I’ll

e were not, I should not bother my head about her. I feel, in a measure, re

’s face as a breath first blurs and

” he said. “You surely don’t suppose that I am

“There is my trouble. If you were in love with her, ther

d at him in com

gone mad?”

gh my agency. You take her from beggary, and put her in a position of comparative luxury. She has sat to you day after day, smiled at your compliments, and — well,

completely

at I have behaved toward her only as I have done to all the other models before her. Surely you would wish me to be civil t

out an expostulation. Can not you look at it in the same light as I do? Are you so blind that you can not see that this girl is falling every day more deeply in love with you? The love-light gleams in her eyes whenever she looks at you; she sees an implied c

were too preposterous to have ever occurred to hi

ere is still time for matters to be put right. She has so far only looked at the affair from her own standpoint; what is more, I do not want her to lose her employment with

m more sorry than I can say that this should have occurred. Teresina is a good girl, and I would no mor

ciliate him, the further he withdrew into his shell. Victor Fensden, smoking his inevitable cigarette, waited to see what the result would be. There was a certain amount of pathos in the situation, and a close observer might have noticed that the strain was telling upon both of the actors in it, the girl in particular. For the next fortnight or so, the

ut of London for six months,” said Godfrey, one evening, as

ew why he

d. “I am about as badly off as yourself.

y,” Godfrey replied. “But I had t

o his widowed sister, who was very badly off

hen Fensden said: “If you h

stand. If I had a few hundreds to spare we’d go together and not come back for six

thing that seemed so impossible was de